


Bloody Awful Learning Process

by GillO



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Jossverse
Genre: Bad Poetry, F/M, Gen, Post-Series, William the Bloody Awful Poet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2570234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GillO/pseuds/GillO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike is not William, he's bloody sure about that. But some of William's habits are hard to give up. Especially pouring his heart out in bloody awful poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody Awful Learning Process

“The bride was blooming, fresh and gay,  
She almost danced into the church.  
She laughed to think her wedding day  
Had come, not left her in the lurch.

“For many an anguished year she’d staid  
Awaiting her true lover’s kiss,  
For dread of dying an old maid  
She’d all but taken vows amiss

“An evil black-brow’d broody man  
Had almost swept her heart away  
Had stol’n her young faith then ran  
Far off to LA’s brightest day.

“But lo, at almost her last gasp,  
A wiry hero stepped right out  
And seized her in his loving grasp  
Knowing his heart was hers throughout.

“And thus she danced and thus she sang  
Her love was waiting up the aisle  
The bells up in the steeple rang  
The people singing all the while.”

Giles looked up. “You think there are problems with the scansion? Just the scansion?” 

“Well, yes. Know I’m a crap poet. Thought you might offer a word of advice.”

“Spike. Listen to me carefully. I know you love her. She is determined to have you. Be content with that, and the fact that her friends and family are more or less resigned to it. But the poetry? My best advice. Whatever your day job is? Don’t give it up quite yet.”

*****

The edges of the sheets of paper crumpled in his hand irritated his palm more than a little, but he ignored the discomfort and focused on kicking the hell out of a can all the way across town.

He knew he should not have asked for help. He knew his poetry was crap. Cecily had made it plain. Those bastard self-appointed critics had made it plain. They had paid for it very unpleasantly indeed only a week later, and he did allow himself a few, a _very_ few minutes of contemplation of doing the same to Giles. A railway spike was an American invention he had built an entire reputation on in the past, and introducing Dear Rupert to the business end of one had its attractions. Not for long though – the thought of what exactly his Slayer might do to him was a pretty good deterrent.

“Don’t give up the day job.” What bloody day job? What role or function did he even have in this new post-Sunnydale world? Hanger-on by Appointment to the Senior Slayer? A right comedown for a former Scourge of Europe ™. 

Sod it. His poetry might be crap – must be if the Magnificent Pouf had admired it – but at least it was his. And Buffy liked poems. She’d told him so. She’d even said nice things about one of his once. So had that rowdy bunch back in LA for that matter.

Rupert Giles was just wrong. That was all. Oh, and too bloody up himself to be capable of recognising the fact too. Sodding arrogant Oxonian – did he even realise William had been to the Other University? Did he have any respect at all for a man three times his age with a lot of experience (some of it _highly_ educational) to show for it? Bleeding arselicker from way back. 

Yes, he ought to have known better than go to that quarter for literary advice. No chance of anything sensible or useful there.

He gave the can a final, vicious kick and watched it soar over the roof of the neighbour’s house. Pity it wasn’t Rupes, really. But no, poor old Spike had to kowtow, just to keep the sodding peace, had to keep the superannuated librarian happy so his Slayer didn’t get upset.

Didn’t mean he had to follow the git’s advice though. He had some verses in mind which she would at least say she liked. 

A few stanzas would get him into a much better mood. He’d be a good man again, however lousy a poet he remained.

*****

The house he shared with his Slayer was exactly the sort he would have scorned when he’d seen this area as a good food source. Back then it had been an artisan’s home, with lots of kids, one general servant, no clothes nice enough to tempt Dru and neighbours close and likely to raise the alarm at the sounds of horrified screams. Now it was a des res in a gentrified neighbourhood, but Buffy seemed to like it, even if all the things the agent had shown off as ‘original features’ were mostly fakes. The front door was certainly a damned sight newer than it seemed.

He jammed the key savagely in the lock. Fakes and frauds and memories of his days as a Victorian gent. Not the sort of thing he enjoyed recalling; too close to the humiliation that had turned him to the path of darkness. He stepped inside and slammed the door shut, then paused, waiting for a familiar voice to be raised in irritation and chiding. 

No, she wasn’t home yet. Good. He slung his coat on the newel-post and strode into the room she called a den but he considered his book-room. What? There were books in it weren’t there? Not as if his Slayer read them so much, but he quite enjoyed reading the stuff that had been so racy in his youth that he’d actually hidden it from Mother. Flaubert, Hardy, Baudelaire. Especially that latter – filthy little Frog he’d been. Lovely taste in nasty poems; they’d suited him and Dru very well way back then.

Wasn’t in the mood for that bunch tonight, though stay away from the memories, Spike. Had to prove himself, didn’t he? Not to that wanker Rupert, of course. He’d have to wait a long time before he’d be offered another sight of the effusions of Spike’s soul.

Not to himself either. Not as if he was insecure after all. His poetry might not have been Tennyson, but it was better than Swinburne at the very least. He just hadn’t found the right mode. Ballads were too simple for his ideas. No wonder Giles didn’t get him. Or them.

No, he’d go elsewhere for a model tonight. Only the best was good enough for Buffy, after all. Sonnets were the thing.

He started writing.

That time of year has long gone past for me  
When autumn accents metaphored my life  
I’ve gone through many seasons feeling free  
Yet tied and shackled to unending strife  
My love is given rarely and to one  
Who must to me perfection represent  
‘Twas once my gorgeous dark and wicked plum  
Pure evil magic seeming devil-sent  
But then I met a burst of sunshine rays  
A tiny, lithe, impossible half-dream  
Whose anger and intensity amaze  
As much as laughter and my sexy queen  
I have no choice – my love I must engage  
To seek and follow her through every age.

At least the sodding thing scanned. Shakespearean it was not. Bloody Wanker was right. He was crap at writing, crap at poetry, crap at everything.

One last try. If his youth kept on forcing itself into his memories, then choose something fashionable back then. The sort of thing that always pleased the ladies.

 

An Acrostic.  
Be still, unbeating heart  
Unused to joy  
For now indeed your day has come to pass.  
Free and unchained  
Your love will live at last.

She said it once  
Under a rocky ledge  
My hand entwined in hers.  
My soul sparked up, in glorious light  
Effulgent as it blazed  
Returned, I thought to stay away  
So not a good idea.

Spike scowled, crumpled the pages and threw both into the corner of the room.  
He sat, slumped, with his head in his hands, for a good ten minutes. Then he retrieved the sheets, smoothed them with infinite care and opened the little marquetry box on his desk. He placed his latest pieces of rubbish with all the others, then closed the box.

It took some effort. The box was nearly full.

**Author's Note:**

> Adapted from fics written for the Halloween Challenge 2014 at Live Journal site SB_Fag_Ends.


End file.
